Battledances and Heartsinging
by Raindog Bride
Summary: A series of oneshots focusing on the Dragoon warrior's battle dances. They are short and swift, but more poetry than anything. You didn't really think they didn't enjoy the blood they spilled? Kongol's up.
1. Hard Blade, Rose

Hard Blade. A LOD one shot.  
  
The dance continued, a whipping, slicing act of pure viciousness and grace, blood arcing above the sword's blade almost delicately, the fine, black steel caressing the monster's skin, parting it, drinking it.  
  
Forgetting that her own blood bubbled out of half-melted flesh, her skin mauled and torn from flame and wind, twisted magics warring with her body, seeking to destroy and send her into that last sleep.  
  
The battle would be over one way or another, in victory, or in her, and her comrade's deaths, one that would not be halted or revived, with achingly cool spells that flowed across the body, tightening the cells, healing wounds, and furthering the agony yet to come.  
  
"Hard blade." she hissed through gritted teeth, and indeed it was, ebony metal like sliced diamonds, finding the monster's vulnerabilities and exploiting them, forcing them to weep tears of ember through their ruined eyes.  
  
Dimly she heard the Dart yell his victory as the monster fell, panting, its mangled limbs twitching before it died. She saw the Serdian King's quiet, exultant exultation, and closed her eyes as the healing enchantments repaired her skin, stopping the pain, staunching the wounds.  
  
She sheathed her sword in a whisper of motion, and waited for Dart to lead the party onward. She could wait. Another battle would come. And then she could lose herself once again in motion, forgetting the blood of the princess as it dripped scarlet onto the deck.  
  
Forgetting the laughter in Zieg's eyes as they flew over the Wingly city.  
  
Forgetting that she had once smiled.  
  
And Rose bit back a poison comment as the archer girl hugged Dart's neck, and turned to go, stepping around the Giganto's stolid form and heading up the path. Eventually they would follow. 


	2. Gust of Wind Dance, Albert

Wind.  
  
This was who he was, and who he struggled so hard to embody in every form, the sweeping, unyielding, brutal gust that tears away homes and families in one fell swoop.  
  
This was his foot, braced against the crumbling dirt, his hands, gloved with delicate leather, and his jabbing, twirling spear that never gave the enemy a chance to recover, a relentless storm of crushing blows and slicing cuts.  
  
Albert was a quiet man by nature, a fair ruler, and an excellent scholar. He prided himself on his good judgment and clear head. But now, in his eyes was a red haze, and in his hand was a sturdy spear, and all he thought was cut, cut, cut until it no longer moves.  
  
His hand flicked out his utter delicacy, drawing a line of red on the monster's skin. It screamed and gibbered, striking back, but oh, he was too swift, and he danced back with a devastating blow of such force that the shock jangled up his arm and made his teeth clench.  
  
On it went, and his hands were spattered with dark blood, and its cries grew weaker still as it lost the will to fight. Albert's lips drew back to reveal white teeth in a feral grin, and he delivered the finishing blow, a deadly punch with the spear's blade that sent a gout of blood onto the sandy soil.  
  
He turned, dazed, and looked with confusion at the wary glance Dart was giving him, and the measuring stare of Rose, cleaned off his spear with a swipe of cloth, and waited to move out. 


	3. Cat's Cradle, Meru

Disclaimer: If I owned LOD that would mean I owned Lloyd. And if I owned Lloyd, there would be no way in HELL I'd write fanfiction. I'd be...... busy.  
  
What can I say, I love sentence fragments. *Bows head in shame* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Meru: Cat's Cradle.  
  
Strike! And bound away like a liveried bird caught in the updraft, a whirling dervish of blue fabric and pale skin, a laughing thing of snow and glass, giggling madly as iron connects with bone, a cracking jolt of breaking limbs.  
  
With the fluid grace of a tumbling mountain stream, gurgling down the rocks in a mad rush to the ocean, and the deliberate pace of a placid lake, staring back at the sky like a limpid eye that sees all that tells no one, and the screaming fury of an ice storm in the northern reach, she strikes and retreats, laughing, teasing, swinging her hammer of death with all the care of a child.  
  
Merriment in her scarlet eyes, she hooks it behind her back in an impudent gesture meant purely for her own amusement.  
  
But the laughing child has a taste for blood, and she delights in the smooth feel of her hammer, the twirling grace of her weapon, and in the wet thud of crushed bone. "Cat's Cradle!" she cries, and the intricate, centuries-old steps of the hammer dance take her, and she is caught in the rushing sound of spinning iron, and the crack of connected blows, and finally, the end move, her feet perfectly in line, her head cocked upright like a proud rooster, her hammer caught delicately in a slim-fingered grip behind her back, her pale hair in its foolish decoration caressing the back of her neck, and an elated laugh burbling out of her throat.  
  
She turns and skips away, her battered sandals slapping the ground and raising dust, the ridiculous bows and frills of her attire bouncing with her, an outfit that has earned her more than one disapproving, and scathing remark from the Dark Dragoon.  
  
Honestly, that woman doesn't know how to have fun at all. 


	4. Moon Strike, Dart

The flickering flame.  
  
Really, the name contested with his ash pale hair, his confused, muddled blue eyes, and the sometimes blocky motions of his movement. Dart was considered a purely harmless person by many, even growing up, helping out when needed, occasionally swinging a battered sword earnestly, a rusted relic from a time when it was needed, now merely a useless tool for a wannabe swordsman.  
  
But- the hoping youngster had asked many questions, and found many teachers, and a life on the road searching for an answer to a riddle of the past that he could barely remember, had hardened him, toughened him where no stoic lesson could, learning that THIS hack worked best on tough hide, and when they strike back, leap away quickly and block with the armor, to use the sword as an extension of one's own arm, one's mind, one's soul.  
  
And now- with two companions on each side, the bitter woman with the dark eyes of a lioness, and the fair-haired gentle king with the striking blow of a snake, he twisted his body out of the way, lithe and supple as a whip, the stylized, slithering actions liberating some part of him, the seething, bitter, endlessly angry part that Rose had seen in glimpses, and respected, that Lavitz had worried over, and that Shana had never seen, and would never understand.  
  
He was the hero, and because he was the hero, he would act with honor, with good judgement, with humor, but no one would say a word of a line of blood here, a vicious strike in a non-lethal area, meant only to cause more pain, and to make it scream louder, and how he rejoiced in the blow and the dance for it made him important, sure that he could save the kingdom and avenge his friends.  
  
"Moon Strike!" he shouted, voice surprisingly hard, and the sword whipped one way, then another, confusing the snarling beast before burying itself in its half-turned spine, ruthlessly crippling it.  
  
And so, turning away, he swept a bashful grin, wiped the sweat off of his brow, and clumsily wiped off his sword and replaced it in its sheath. Nobody likes a show off. 


	5. Moonlight, Shana

She stood, arrow nocked delicately to the string, the fletched end held between forefinger and thumb with an easy grace that bespoke long practice. However, her gaze was unsure, her knees bent together, her armor light and impractical, and except for the roughened calluses on her fingertips, she looked as one who lived a soft life.  
  
But her gaze hardened to the edge of madness, and she grasped with sure familiarity the stone at her breast, then ah, the sweet change came, the pouring of her mind and spirit into a newer vessel, a stronger vessel, where her body sang as sweetly as a plucked bowstring, and she was young, and she was beautiful, and nothing could hurt her.  
  
The song of the white dragon shrieked in her ears, and the delicious, tender warmth of the dragon's spirit and love surrounded her, and she was invincible in its glow. White armor the color of bone and polished silver surrounded her, hard as diamonds, but yielding as leather to her skin, coaxing her to a sweet perfection that belongs only to the young, the strong, and the deadly.  
  
And the creature with the beauty of archangels and the white heat of the dragon's flame stretched her great blow and cried out a terrible and lovely sound as she released it, her body stretched impossibly back as if to hit the very moon. A shaft of pure light and joy spiraled crazily up with the speed of thought, and it struck, and it sunk into the moon above, or perhaps she only thought it did, but it didn't matter, for she was surrounded by life and joy, and the utter happiness of a young creature with strong legs, the dancing, dazzling energy that powered kings and great rulers, the force of the universe, and she was floating, lax and ambivalent in its center, drunk on its beauty, and she felt its power fill her to overflowing, and she was young, and she was beautiful, and nothing could hurt her.  
  
She sunk back to the floor, the armor sinking back into the swirl of bright light, and her bow was small and ordinary once more, and her back held no swift moving wings, and she nearly sobbed with the departure of the White Dragon.  
  
But she held it in and smiled tenderly at Dart, and giggled shyly as he smiled back, and she turned to run up the path ahead, for she was young, and she was beautiful, and nothing could hurt her. 


	6. Sacred Sister, Miranda

Eyes flashing pure, unfiltered hate from cornflower blue eyes, a thriving, healthy rage that had nurtured her all of her short life, the driving force behind her every motion, the blind fury of it all prompting her forward where a lesser person might have dropped.  
  
Even as she stretched her muscles for the lining of the shot, the clean, limber motion of pulling the bow back, the anger boiled beneath her skin, causing fever bright spots of high color to burn in her fair cheeks, and her eyes to narrow to mere slits, blazing passion.  
  
She wanted them to suffer, all of them, to punch their frail bodies full of screaming holes until their writhing stopped, and their guts lay spilled in grotesque harmony on the roadway. She wanted to scream into their faces, every last one of them, and make them cower into their holes because that's all they were, worthless little cringing beasts.  
  
But no. For the good of her country, and for the good of the world, she walked with them, packed with them, ate, slept, and drank with them, gritting her teeth through their inane banter and waiting for them to find the Moon Mirror so that she could go home where she was needed.  
  
And now she was forced to snipe out useless monsters on their seemingly unending path, lending HER aide and Her succor to her companions, a thankless task for the biggest group of idiots to cross Millie Seseau.  
  
She ground her teeth together, a hair raising rasping sound, and released the bow in a perfect motion, well practiced, sending her hate and pure spite screaming towards her foe, burying itself into its eye and letting it die swiftly.  
  
She released her breath and eyed her dragoon spirit as it absorbed her anger, her pure hatred, and the trembling ache in her arms brought on by the bow. It swallowed it all, and never said anything, and she was grateful. To disappear, then to be borne again on its white heat was more than anyone deserved and she was grateful.  
  
Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Miranda looked contemptuously at the slender, black haired woman with darkness in her eyes. Rose stared expressionlessly at her for a moment, then turned to walk on, cool as a lioness.  
  
Miranda hated her most of all.  
  
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A.N: (I always rather disliked Miranda. Thank you for all of your reviews.) 


	7. Atomic Mind, Haschel

Erm. MadamButterfly? Tina, dearie, thanks for the review. For what you asked for, it's simple. Check out the second chapter. Thank you.  
  
Once, as a child, he had climbed the high training platform above his village, as the trees were tossing their fronds, and the waves battered at the crumbling rock of the beach, rain pelting down into his eyes, and lightning cracking insanely about the heavens.  
  
There, he had stood, and shivered in the tumultuous downpour, his skinny frame battered by the driving storm, not really knowing why he was up there, only that the energy called him, sang to him, and ordered him to join it.  
  
Tension crackled in the air around him, and as he lifted his hands to the skies, he felt the wind whip him about and plaster his clothes to his body. His hair rose eerily atop his head and arms, and the air sang around him, then the world exploded into light, and pain, and sweet, sweet joy.  
  
They had found him the next morning, burned and confused, sprawled atop the tower, and they had said he was like one taken by the War God. They had patched him up, and reprimanded him lazily, and the matter had been forgotten.  
  
But now- with the energy blazing insanely about his fist, snapping and twisting in the air around him, buoying him up with amethyst wings and fine, strong armor that twisted about him as elegantly as silk, he felt that same crazed power within him, and he flexed his iron claws, and sliced his wings through the air, and felt truly strong.  
  
And it sang! Oh how it sang, howling crazily in his blood and he felt the urge to bellow along with it, the energy rising, rising, an erotic blend of potential and pure ferocity of movement!  
  
A flash of light, a crack of thunder, and he took that ball of blazing ore and arched his back as lithely as any dancer, muscles straining, then hurled it at his enemy with cold cruelty, his splendid, bass voice rising in a feral yell of triumph.  
  
The aftermath crackled in the air, and his hair stood on end from every follicle, and he alighted on the ground, tired, but excellently so, as if after a hard practice session, or an entire night of lovemaking, or of besting a foe you could not defeat until now. His body trembled, then was still, as the armor faded back into the nothingness from whence it came, and the violent spirit glinted in its pouch, and Haschel felt powerful. 


	8. Inferno, Kongol

Golden skin with white eyes, and a terrible frowning mouth, bronze cheeks framed by hideous clan symbols. His eyes showed nothing, no emotion, and certainly not pity.

He held his axe competently, confidently, a massive, blunt thing that was carried easily by his immense and knotted arms. They were burned dark by the son and tattooed with more of his people's language, twisting, convoluted symbols of a vanished age. Day by day his memory of his people's voice weakened and splintered in his mind, and it burned inside of him.

He tensed, then thundered forth, hacking brutally at the legs of the monster, which screeched and attempted to dodge feebly, but it was slow, and sick, and should have never have bothered him. In its many-colored eyes, Kongol saw the jeering faces of those who slaughtered his kind, and his eyes misted red for a time, as crushed the beast beneath his feet into a slick pulp.

He didn't want to be here, in the shadow of what used to be a citadel of learning and beauty, and what was now a deserted ruin blocked off from the rest of the world by magic and time. He didn't want to think of strong, untouchable Emperor Doel bleeding from a gut wound in his throne room, held up by his twin swords of moon and sun, and by his iron will.

But the one who burned like a flame in the desert had called him, and he followed. The red one had showed that he had power, immense power, and more than anything Kongol wanted that. He wanted to know what made the flames burn cold in the dark woman's eyes, and he wanted to know what made the stripling king stand as straight as an arrow shaft. Was it pride? Was it divinity? Was it wisdom?

Was it hope?


End file.
